


In the Interest of Free Will

by comacoma



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Past Relationship(s), Rating May Change, Schizophrenia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24338560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comacoma/pseuds/comacoma
Summary: A mundane life is enough to be grateful for, having spent years staving off intense psychosis.If only Swain could curb his tendency to greed for ambitious things.
Relationships: Darius/Jericho Swain
Comments: 15
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Modern AU with a more domestic tone.  
> [Table of Contents, for people who want to know which chapter other characters appear.](https://pastebin.com/BYeKqKYP)

On the one day he hoped it wouldn’t, of course the soft murmuring would rear its ugly head again, heralded in by the dull beat of raven's wings. 

His medication was largely effective most days, yes, but he would be lying if he hadn’t expected this to happen sooner than later. Every so often, a change to his lifestyle would manage to rattle his chemistry and encourage breakthrough symptoms… And he would definitely consider the prospect of a relationship, for the first time in _years,_ as a notable change.

Camille had suggested long ago that the hallucinations and delusions were connected to his feelings of guilt, and despite his reluctance to admit it, it had been true. It always ended like this— the voices made a point to lurk close whenever a prospect too pleasant drifted within his reach.

Although it's become very simple to rationalize and dismiss, the murmuring that's followed him all day just out of earshot does not completely slip his notice. It's easier to ignore, especially in crowded places already containing the bustle of conversation, but he pauses as a familiar voice cuts through the drone with a distinctive timbre.

Directly in his ear, to his left, where he knows there is nothing but the bar’s tacky wooden wall.

“It's never been a secret that something is wrong with you, Jericho. They can all tell with one look at you.” Emilia. Words of hers that she had said once, in a memory he wasn’t entirely sure was accurate anymore. “If I don’t hold your pieces together, you won’t find anyone else who will.”

He sighs lowly in annoyance, turning his attention to the bustle of the restaurant rather than dwelling on her words. There is a shivery run of nails down the back of his neck, the same as she used to do, but after everything that had happened, it entirely lacked the soothing effect it once evoked. He doesn’t turn, there was no reason for anyone to be touching him. But to have a facet of her still in his head, even now… It always succeeded to infuriate him in a way her insults never could.

“He won’t want you, my darling.” Her voice is barely a murmur, as if she had leaned over his shoulder to make hushed commentary. “Not once he realizes exactly what this is.” With a final amused huff the voice finally snuffs out, evidently having said all that it wanted.

Likely, because Swain found himself agreeing. 

Not that it meant he wouldn't play his hand— he was selfish to that effect. When something caught his interest, he was tenacious in his pursuit of it.

The memory of hazel eyes has warmth sinking into his stomach like a shot of whisky. Darius was not soft— not always— but under his bold features there was a sentimentality. Beneath overwhelming strength, the surprising tendency to nurture. What the man reaped from doing so, Swain couldn’t quite see yet. 

He’s learned well that people were not so kind without ample reason.

He surfaces from his thoughts when someone touches him, another hand, but this time firm and _warm_ , and Swain turns his sharp gaze to the side. He sees a thick torso, and his eyes slide up it to settle on a familiar face.

“Hi.” Darius smiles awkwardly down at him, and the tension slowly unwinds from Swain’s shoulders. Unfortunately, the hand leaves his arm as quickly as it came. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I don’t mind it.” Hopefully that was encouragement enough, for the man to know he enjoyed the touches without needing to ask. “Join me,” Swain invites, and Darius squeezes into the booth across from him.

Neither of them were especially small men, but watching Darius fit himself into the space with some difficulty was nearly comic. It's not exactly a place Swain would have chosen himself, but he supposed it suited Darius— the entirety of the interior revolved around rustic wooden texture, lit dimly by tungsten bulbs. “I hope I didn't keep you waiting long.”

By technicality, he hadn't. He was only two minutes late, Swain judged, by a quick glance to his wrist. He didn’t particularly mind, either way... After all, he had arrived ten early, by his own preference. “Not long at all.”

“That's good,” Darius says, and his warm smile widens, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. how genuine the man’s expressions look always gives Swain pause, thoughts stalling in his head as if to properly catalogue the sight. Perhaps because the clarity of it was so opposite to himself— time and time again he’s been told he has resting bitch face, by those bold enough to do so.

 _Affective flattening,_ his doctor had told him it was called. He would feel more inclined to remedy it, if his neutral expression didn’t already ward people away so flawlessly. Evidently, it’s finally come back to bite him, as it was taking a conscious effort to soften his expression, now.

“So… you decided then. Whether you want to be official,” Darius prompts, and Swain realizes he’s been staring. The man looks calm, trusting. But as they make eye contact his nails do pick idly at a splinter in the table’s wood, betraying some hint of nervousness. Even so, the man uses the last of his words to reassure him. “Don’t feel pressured.”

“I don’t. And I _would_ like it.” Swain looks down, idly wiping the condensation from his glass. He doesn't want to see whatever hopeful emotion flits across Darius’ face, does not want to lose his nerve in the face of some greedy fantasy. “—But there are a few things I need to discuss with you beforehand. Your answer might change. ...And I’d like you to know it’s of no consequence, if it does.”

“Why would it change?” The man sounds genuinely confused, if not a bit wary.

“Because the more time you spend with me, the more trouble you will find me,” Swain states flatly, and sighs lightly from his nose. He makes eye contact again with Darius’ cautiously stony face. No sense in beating around the bush any longer. “I am schizophrenic.”

It seems to take a moment to register. But contrary to Swain’s expectations the man’s expression gradually softens. “Oh,” he finally says, and Swain finally realizes that what he’s reading in the other man is relief.

“' _Oh_ ,’” Swain echos, dryly.

“It’s not—” Darius shakes his head. “Sorry. It’s just that I was afraid you were going to say you were... Terminally ill or something.”

He blinks, baffled by the nonchalance. _This really isn't much better_ , he is tempted to say, but counts the fact that Darius hasn’t immediately stood from the table as a win.

“I haven’t met anyone with schizophrenia before, so I don’t really know much about it,” Darius continues. “Other than the obvious.”

When Darius doesn’t clarify, he bites. “...And what would that be?”

“Mood swings? Seeing things.”

“No. Not mood swings. It’s... A disconnect with reality. It can cause a change in mood, sometimes, but it’s a genuine reaction to what someone thinks is real.”

“...Okay,” Darius says slowly, yet it's clear he doesn't see the distinction.

Another means of explanation, then. “If someone walked up to and insulted you, would you call that indignation a mood swing? Or would there be ample reason for it?” He asks.

A contemplative look passes over his features. “Mm. Okay. That makes sense.”

“But you were partially right. Hallucinations and delusions, I do experience.” He makes pointed eye contact, Darius meeting his stare levelly. “ _Very rarely_.” He’s worked too hard to control his positive symptoms to be willing to undersell himself. “I've lived with it a long while, and most days are without incident... But I do have my moments. I wanted to tell you this now, in case it was a dealbreaker.”

There's a tortuously long silence. 

“You’re medicated?” the man sitting across from him finally asks. It’s a simple but loaded question, and the hamfistedness Darius doesn’t seem to acknowledge is irritating.

“...Heavily,” Swain replies flatly.

“Sorry,” he amends gruffly. “I wasn't trying to be— I just wanted to know you're not dangerous.” Swain’s expression finally stiffens into a leer, and Darius immediately jumps to correct himself, hands raised placatingly. “... _To yourself._ Not me.” 

...Ah. 

He frowns, brow creased. “I'm not worried about you hurting me, or—” Darius shakes his head. “Wolf’s name, I’ll shut up. I won’t say that I don't need more information, but… My answer’s not changing.”

He needs a moment, and even after, Swain can’t find the energy to force emotion into his voice. “You’re serious.”

“I like you.” Darius’ stare bores into him, steadily. “Of course I’m serious. The worst we can do is try, and admit that it doesn’t work out.”

He takes his own time to mull it over, answers with some hesitation, but does answer. “...Then perhaps I’ll tell you a bit more, and I’ll let you think it over. Is that agreeable?”

Darius’s stoic expression doesn’t falter. “Sounds fine.”

And so, he tells Darius about the murmuring voices, and the hands, and the phantasmic raven. About how most days bring him only mild symptoms, if any at all, and about the rare days he finds himself immobilized by delusions, a sense of mortal dread latching relentlessly onto him. The good news he shares is that he has become cunning in his forecast of it— Has studied himself and his own tendencies, to better anticipate the onset of an episode, and as a result had found a means of living independently. 

He does not feel similarly confident in divulging that the raven is a demon named Raum, nor how he's still partially convinced that when he dies the thing will rip his soul from his chest and swallow it down. Pointedly avoids mentioning that on particularly bad days, he feels convinced that he knows exactly what people will do and say— how simple pattern recognition inflates into decided omniscience, and becomes evidence that the raven truly does know everything that will come to pass. The demon forces him to look upon a life of repulsive predestination, where there is nothing to be decided. A world where there only ever were words written in stone. It feels much too dark for even the moody bar they find themselves seated at. Much too intimate and complicated for only two months of them having been seeing each other, absolutely.

Yes… He’s flayed himself open enough for one sitting.

Darius asks questions, and has the decency to not look too disturbed at the answers. It has a dangerous sliver of hope lodging deep in Swain’s gut. “When you have hallucinations, how hard are they to ignore?” 

"...Tactile things are simple to rationalize. The murmuring can be an irritating buzz, but it hasn't actually been distressing in quite a while." A memory comes to mind. One of himself demanding for his colleagues to not chatter idly amongst themselves in the middle of a work meeting. He had not entirely grasped the situation at the time, but reading the room proved simple. Clearly his comment had not been received well, met with unsettled looks rather than agreement. Even now, he remembers it incorrectly— In reality, no one had ever been speaking. But that was quite a long time ago, and he pushes the memory away. "...Hearing proper voices is more of a distraction. They sound convincingly similar to real conversation. As if someone were standing nearby, for example... It can be... Well... briefly confusing." Darius is watching him expectantly, and so he finds something else to say about it. "Often, the comments fixate on whatever happens to be weighing on my mind. That insight can be helpful, occasionally. It makes it very clear when a problem needs my attention."

Darius blinks, looking subtly intrigued by how he'd managed to develop a utility of it. “Do you hear anything now?”

“No. It’s easy to focus on you.” The words jump from his throat without a second thought, and Swain immediately regrets them, letting his eyes slide closed for a moment in embarrassment. He sighs, and pulls himself out of it to clarify. “...What I meant was… Even if I was, it could very well be the tables around us that I was hearing. That makes it simple to rationalize and ignore.” On a good day, at least.

“That does make sense,” Darius comments. Something suddenly catches his eye, and Swain turns his head slightly to realize he has shooed their waitress away as she approached. He looks strangely apologetic as Swain turns back to eye him. “Maybe we can talk more about this somewhere more… I don't know. Comfortable. Private.”

"The concern’s unneeded." He pauses. “...But appreciated. People hearing is not one of my concerns. It’s not likely I would meet anyone here again, even if they did manage to hear our conversation.” 

Somehow, this earns a fond look from Darius, and his praises. “Guess I should’ve figured you wouldn’t care. You're strong like that.” _Strong?_ Swain nearly laughs at that, but manages to maintain his composure. Maybe years ago, when his symptoms were much milder, but now he was anything but. Despite it all, Darius reaches out to him, and Swain feels frozen as his hands are clasped between Darius’ own. 

They’re warm. Intensely warm. 

“You don't have to tell me everything in one night, is what I'm saying. I don't want you to feel like… I don't know how to explain it. Like some spectacle. This is okay, Jericho.”

“If we’re going to do this, I need you to understand that it _won't_ be. Not always,” he states flatly, because it’s what’s realistic. This all feels... A bit too good to be true. If Darius’ hands weren't on his own, feeling so extraordinarily tangible, he’d genuinely question whether any of this was really happening. Darius opens his mouth to respond, but Swain presses forwards. “I’m not saying this to be melodramatic. On my conscience, I’m warning you that there may be times where it will be difficult to like—”

“ _Stop_ ,” Darius snaps firmly, and Swain stills as the hands around his own tighten. Darius lets out a slow breath, expression intense, and Swain warily measures it. “I don’t want to hear that,” he finally says, after forcing his shoulders to relax. “You’re plenty likable… when you have the patience to be,” he jokes, offering smirk. Swain rolls his eyes, but the corner of his lip twitches.

“Is this about the workcall I took?”

Darius laughs. “You completely tore the guy a new one, and hung up without letting him get a word in.”

“And I would do it again,” Swain responds coolly. “I told Du Couteau not to call after 6. He was knowingly interrupting our dinner.”

“It was funny,” Darius admits. “Humor falls under likable, by the way,” Darius reminds, and Swain rolls his eyes. “Bold, sharp as a tack. A bit lacking in patience, but you let me get away with things— It’s nice, knowing that I’m your favorite.”

“...Yes, perhaps you are,” Swain admits, after a moment of silence. “And you have your horribly attractive face to thank for that,” he says sourly, frowning, and Darius laughs.

“Yeah. There it is. So frank about it.” 

“ _Frank_ is not often a good thing.”

“You might be the exception, then, because it’s cute on you.” 

Swain blinks slowly. He can't remember the last time that word was used in relation to himself. Probably because it truly didn’t suit him at all. And yet Darius was across the table, grinning at him with satisfaction... The look in his hazel eyes not mocking, but fond. Swain feigns annoyance, because he’s floundering at what else he even _can_ do. “...Ridiculous man.”

It just has Darius smiling wider, and he gently squeezes Swain’s gloved hands. “I like you, Jericho. You really are something else.”

He doesn't bother denying. Unfortunately, the man was just as stubborn in his opinions as himself.

“Come to my place after we eat and you can teach me how to take care of you when things get bad.” Swain sizes him up, an edge of caution in his eye. But he can't find a trace of subterfuge in the man’s expression, and honestly, that Darius is being sincere scares him more than if he’d been lying. 

“Ridiculous man,” Swain says again, reluctantly pulling out of Darius’ touch. “I’ll tell you all you want.”

~~~

The dinner is edible enough. He doesn't especially enjoy greasy bar food, but Darius eats with a hearty enthusiasm that’s nearly contagious. It’s an odd feeling, being pleased simply for someone else's satisfaction. It was sometimes something he felt with Camille, but never with such inconsequential, simple things. 

Darius acts no differently than before, joking with him, freely disagreeing with him, discussing his opinions with the same firmness he always had. And of course, being insufferable.

“You have barbecue sauce on your face,” Swain chides.

“I do?”

“Yes. On your left cheek.”

Darius licks his tongue but misses twice despite clear instructions, and when the man leans forward over the table with a cheeky smile, Swain realizes it has been on purpose. “Help me?”

He levels a cold stare on Darius as the man dares him to make a move, smirking playfully, and slowly Swain slips off his glove and reaches out. With a precisely deadpan look he catches the sauce on his thumb, as if patronizing the man for his childishness— but again Darius does something unexpected. Swain freezes as the man catches him by his wrist and pulls his hand close, licking the sauce from the pad of Swain’s thumb. In an instant, his heart is hammering dizzyingly loud in his chest. Darius laughs quietly as Swain immediately snatches his hand away, stealing one of the wipes that came with his food from him. “You and your insufferable games,” Swain mutters bitterly.

The man is grinning wide, despite the bite of Swain’s words. “By Wolf’s teeth, even your ears are red.”

Swain stares quietly, wiping his hand clean.

“Too much?” he asks, voice softening as Swain slips the glove back on.

“It’s annoying that you can so easily… Well...” But he abandons the thought. “It’s fine, Darius. It’s all in good fun.”

The man lets out a low laugh. “I thought so too.”

* * *

Swain has an idea of what to expect as Darius invites him in, but he is proven wrong.

It’s a moderately sized apartment for the city center, furnished with the essentials yet still quite sparse compared to his own home— Undoubtedly elegant, but with the modern tastes of glass and gray lacquer, rather than hand carved wood. It couldn’t be further from what Swain would have guessed of Darius’ tastes, and the sight had him pausing a moment. It felt almost sterile, cold and detached, as if the man had moved into a catalogue’s photo shoot. There is only one piece that meets Swain’s expectations, being a well-loved sofa in dark leather.

“Quite Noxian of you,” he comments, as he takes a slow look over the decor.

Darius laughs. “Yeah... I'm really no good at interior decorating. Never felt the need for it… Sorry that it’s not very ‘homey.’”

“No matter,” Swain says, pulled out of his thoughts as Darius coaxes his coat off his shoulders to hang it in the closet. “But I do like a gentleman,” he muses, smirking.

Darius speaks with a low softness, rather than meet his play with something similar. “Don’t thank me for basic manners. That’s a given.” The man turns back to face him, moves forwards into his space, and they’re close now, nearly nose to nose. Everything seems to still, the air between them most of all, as Swain looks steadily up at him from beneath his brow. “I think your eyes are my favorite,” Darius murmurs, staring back down at him. 

Darius’ warm hazel had become his own favorite sight, and yet the man preferred a deep, expressionless brown. “Truly,” Swain says dryly. “Mine.”

“I didn't realize anyone else was here.” The words are deadpan, clearly a joke, but even so Darius stills cautiously. “Sorry. I was teasing.”

“And I understood that.” Swain sighs and pulls away, moving towards the couch. “Don’t feel the need to walk on eggshells, Darius.”

“I'm still learning,” Darius reminds, unabashed to follow closely on his heels and sit beside him near enough that their legs touch. “Let me hold you?” the man asks, and after a cheeky moment of thought, Swain leans into him. It's like being swallowed up, the arms around him radiating heat and satisfying pressure, Darius shifting to lay flat and coax him down onto his chest. “I _do_ like your eyes, though,” he says again, as Swain presses his ear to the top of his chest. The beat he finds there is steady and unconcerned. “They're so dark. Dark and quiet.”

“Fortunate that _someone_ likes them.” And then, in an attempt to sound less bitter, “...and that this someone ended up being you.”

“Such a smooth talker, when you want to be, at least.” Darius chuckles lightly, and the rumble of it passes through the two of them.

“Sweet nothings are pointless to make, if they have no weight behind them.”

“True.” A hand strokes slowly through his hair, and Swain lets his eyes slide closed. “Tired?”

“Mm.”

“Sleep here, if you want.” 

Another slow stroke down the back of Swain’s head has it seeming like a good idea. He does not have his medication on him, but if he left early in the morning, it was possible.

He feels the rumble of Darius’ voice again, before he hears it. “I know doing something like that is hard.” The man pauses, and Swain waits patiently. “...It's nice that you trust me like that. Really nice.”

“It was necessary. Hiding something of that caliber could only do harm.” Still, Darius gives him an affirming squeeze. “...Schizophrenic people don't do well in relationships, for the most part. It’s not impossible, but I’ve been reluctant to try again for that reason.”

“Again?”

He really must be tired, for his words to be so careless. It had drained him, to reveal something so vulnerable, even with the fact that it had gone about as well as it could. “...I was married, years ago,” he finally says. “Undiagnosed at the time. She chose to feed my delusions rather than the opposite, which ended rather poorly for the both of us.”

Darius mulls over his words silently, the hand still rhythmically smoothing down his hair. When he speaks again, Swain can hear an anger barely subdued in an even tone. “...I’m not sure what to say to that, other than I hope she got what she deserved. Did you want to talk about it?”

It comes out quieter than he’d intended, his voice exhausted and dry. “No… No, I did not.”

“That’s alright.” Darius rests his chin on his head, and sighs. “I told you I was married a while ago. But not that I was the reason it ended.” Swain breathes slowly, contemplating it quietly. It felt hard to believe that Darius could be anything but compassionate. He’s found the man was always direct with his intentions and thoughts, but never petty or abrasive. Just… Extremely straightforward. “I just resigned from the military, and a lot was on my mind. I ended up so obsessed with my own ego back then, that all I focused on was my career. I barely noticed that I was neglecting the more important things in life. Obviously, my wife and kids didn’t appreciate that much.”

“Why tell me this?” Swain asks.

There’s a small pause between them, and then Darius plants a soft kiss to the top of his head. “Because, fair’s fair.”

He supposes that he can accept that. It takes a moment for his tired mind to catch the significance of the words. “...You have children.”

“Both grown by now. Decius and Invetia.” He sighs lowly. “I tried to make it up to them after the fact, but… Well. You know how it is. Too little, too late, and all that.”

Swain breathes quietly for a long pause, and finally finds it in him to murmur again. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’m still here, if they need me.” Loneliness, then. The reason this man settled for him, the reason he was much too kind, was loneliness. Swain hadn’t the energy to care, at this point. He would consider it more rationally in the morning, but for now, he was content to slide selfishly into it. Darius speaks again, but it’s a topic that instantly sobers him. “...You ever have kids?”

“One.” He feels a muffled pop in his left ear, as if he’d suddenly descended an elevator. “She’s gone, now.”

To his credit, Darius doesn't treat him delicately, pressing further with respectful interest instead. “What was her name?”

“Beatrice.” Pale, and dark haired, like her mother. Almost as if he’d had no hand in the act at all, ironically. Yet for better or for worse, she had ended up with his demeanor. She had favored him in nearly all ways, and he had basked in that victory over Emilia. And yet… “My memories of her are the haziest.”

“It’s a good name,” Darius rumbles, quietly.

“It was.” He feels himself sinking into unconsciousness, but rather than an urge to resist it, he feels secure under the weight of Darius’ arms. The complicated memories don’t hurt like this. He sees her face, and only feels pride. _She who makes happy._ “...Yes, it was a very good name.”


	2. Chapter 2

Darius falls asleep to Jericho weighing down the length of his body, and feels warmth kindling in his chest when he wakes to the same sensation. It’d been a while since he could hold someone this close. Equally as long since anyone relaxed so totally to his touch, but he supposed that it could just be the product of genuine exhaustion.

The stress of their talk seemed to really sap Swain of his energy, and Darius couldn’t blame the man. Darius hadn’t been sure what to expect, when Swain had texted that there was something that he needed to tell him, but he had guessed that it was something along the lines of Swain having seen someone else casually— alternatively, feeling unsure about whether he want to be official with a celebrity. But that operated under the assumption that Jericho had figured out he played basketball in the past, a scrap of knowledge which still evidently managed to elude him. 

Honestly, he had just been banking anxiously on that it wasn’t his final guess: that the man was sick with something terminal. 

In technicality, Darius supposed Swain _was_ ill. Just not in any way that he had expected.

He gently pulls a thread of silver hair out from between swain’s lips and smooths it back into the rest, offering an apologetic grin as he slowly blinks his eyes open. Swain makes a disgruntled groan in the back of his throat, and it has Darius laughing softly. 

“Not a morning person?”

Rather than respond, Swain takes a moment to catalogue the room around them before he again lets his eyes close. His breath is a slow and deep sigh, coming and going easily, and Darius finds satisfaction in it. The older he got, the more he lived for looking after people, as long as they would let him. 

Shitty, considering that if he’d felt that way in his thirties, he’d still have a proper family.

He still had them, though, he often had to remind himself. He talked to Quiletta often enough, and made a habit of texting Decius and Inventia every few weeks, even though Inventia never bothered with a response. 

Quiletta wasn’t angry with him, anymore. He dared to consider her a reliable friend, even, after everything that had happened, but to pretend like the chemistry between them hadn’t burnt out a long time ago… It would just be stupid. Time had healed the wounds, but they hardly had anything in common nowadays.

Getting Swain to talk about himself, on the other hand, was like pulling teeth. The man never mentioned anyone familial, sometimes mentioning a woman named Camille as a friend, his coworkers and interns at The Watchers _occasionally_ , but Darius hadn’t expected the reason for that to be that there was no one to speak of. It made him grateful for what he had. A bit ashamed too, that he’d wallowed in his regrets with the company of Draven and Illaoi and Graves. It could have been much worse, all things considered.

“What’s wrong?” Swain asks groggily, and Darius pauses.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re picking your nails. I can hear it,” Swain mutters.

He pauses, and becomes aware that he’d been grinding the nail of his pointer finger against the edge of his thumb’s. It was a bad habit that he’d never managed to curb, but most people hardly noticed. “...Sorry. Just thinking.” 

“Perhaps you should think a little less.” The words aren't unkind, nor especially warm— Simply an idle suggestion made in his half-awake state, and Darius laughs softly at it. 

“Yeah. Maybe.” He sighs, shifting his attention outward. It occurred to him that neither of them had even taken off their shoes, but Darius hadn’t expected to convince the man to stay the night in the first place. It was a bit late on the draw, but… “So… How do you like your eggs in the morning?” 

Swain chuckles lowly, but does answer. “Over easy.”

He could feel a sliver of a gloved hand on his hip, just slightly snaked beneath his t-shirt. The right hand— his dominant one, which Swain seemed to have no reservations in revealing. It had become an eccentricity that Darius had gotten used to, especially after becoming privy to the fact that his left had been injured in the military, but it doesn’t stop him from missing the warm touches that surely lurked underneath. 

He lets the comfortable silence stretch out between them. “...Anything you gotta do today?”

“Work,” Swain mumbles. “...Meal prep. What’s the time…?”

“Around 6.”

“Ah… I should go.” And yet despite his words, he makes no attempt to move.

Darius combs his fingers slowly through the man’s silvered hair. “It’s still early. Sleep a little more, I’ll wake you up.”

It’s then that Swain lifts his head, just enough to pin Darius under his gaze, and Darius can’t help but still. He had managed to blink away the fog of sleep and regain that sharpness to him, and it never failed to make Darius feel as if he was being meticulously picked apart. He waited, heart picking up in his chest, and finally the man spoke. “...Very tempting.” But rather than laying himself back down, Swain pushes himself carefully off of him. “But I do have medication to take.” 

...Right. “That why you’d never come spend the night?” Darius asks.

It’s not meant to be accusatory, but regardless there is a reassuring hand tracing the edge of his jaw a moment later. Darius stares up at Swain, silenced by those dark eyes. “Partially, yes. Know that I am...” Swain pauses, considering his words. “... _Glad_... that you’re receptive of this. But also understand that I don’t consider a controlled environment to be an optional thing.”

“Don’t worry,” Darius finally manages to reply, still wading through the surprise of receiving such a direct response. “I won't keep you from that.”

“You never struck me as the patient type,” Swain muses.

That gets a huff out of him. “People aren’t born patient, you know. That comes with discipline.” Darius reaches to press his palm into Swain’s gloved hand, holding it there against his face. Inevitably, he again finds himself thinking of how it was a shame that he couldn't feel the warmth of Swain’s palm, through the cold leather. But when Darius gave his word, he meant it, and he could give the man whatever time he needed to lower those walls. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

“...Thank you,” Swain finally murmurs.

“Bathroom’s down the hall and to the left.”

Darius lets his eyes close, listening to the distinct sound of dress shoes clicking on wood flooring as Swain stalks off. The man cleans up well, prim as ever with barely a hair out of place, and it’s almost comical how stark the contrast it is when Darius sees the man off at the door. His dark hair is every which way, the glaze of early morning still fogging his expression into something hazy. 

Swain removes his glove to run his fingers over Darius’ bristly stubble, and leans in to press a kiss to his cheekbone. Contrary to Darius’ expectations, Swain's touch is barely a difference from the expensive leather, cold like stone.

His lips, on the other hand, are a different matter entirely.

* * *

Swain arrives home by 6:30, and it takes him no longer than a half hour to have showered, dried his hair out, dressed, and taken his medication. It gives him ample time to eat a proper breakfast and, perhaps even start on reordering his record collection, maybe. It was all methodical; satisfying and simple. After such a strange night it’s nearly therapeutic to settle into his routine, and although he does hear the incessant ringtone of Emelia’s cell phone two rooms over, it’s simple to ignore.

It’s not without its use, at least. He hadn’t forgotten, but it does keep his promise to Camille near the surface of his mind. 

“ _I take it things went well?_ ” 

Over the phone, Swain often felt that Camille’s voice suited her. The filter of electricity made it seem as as if the woman’s gift for precision and foresight was due to a mechanical nature, rather than a practiced meticulosity.

He sets the phone down, puts it on speaker, and distracts himself with scraping together his breakfast. Bacon, and eggs, over easy. He had an itching for it, after Darius had planted the idea in his head.

“I'll begrudgingly admit you were right. He... took it as well as someone could.” She begins to interject something, but he’s not said his piece, yet. “Don't mistake this for your feelings being based in logic. It was only because he doesn’t know _wiser_ than to do so—”

“ _You think Darius a fool, then._ ” 

He stills, just shy of cracking an egg on the skillet. Ah. He hated these types of games. 

“ _...Quite funny. You never happened to mention his naivety before_ .” He rolls his eyes, and splits the first shell decisively against the edge of the pan, and then the next. “ _In fact, you praised him for his blunt sensibility not just a few days ago._ ” She is goading him to dig deeper into the matter, he knows, and admittedly, it worked more often than not.

“He is not naïve,” Swain clarifies, “but he _is_ excessively sentimental. In any case, it would be brazen to expect someone without any experience to… Well, grasp the...” He leers down into two yolks in the pan as if they were watching at him expectantly, as he tries to assemble his thoughts into a clear expression. “My point being, that the discussion we had was just the tip of the iceberg. It didn’t delve into any of the… the ugliness of it.”

“ _Of course not. You can’t cover the entirety of it in just one night, but that is what your job will be. Showing him the ropes, so to speak. Helping him to help you._ ” She hums in thought on the other end of the line. “ _I’m your case manager, Jericho. With that having been said... How well would you say I know you?_ ”

He can’t help but tease dryly at that comment. “You’re understating it a bit, wouldn’t you say? Or do the years as colleagues not count?”

“ _Colleagues, hm? Saying ‘friends’ wouldn’t kill you, you know._ "

Well, if she wanted to be difficult, he would oblige. “Tell me, then: does this dual relationship make us friends with benefits, by technicality...?”

“ _Considering that you're the only one receiving these ‘benefits,’ I would say ‘no,’_ ” she humors. “ _But this all began with a question, if you might recall._ ”

“...I am against the idea that comprehension of a person is something you can measure. There is always something else to unveil.” When it came to people and the human mind, especially so. “But if I _absolutely_ had to quantify it…” He clicks his tongue. “Perhaps I'd give you an eight out of ten.”

“ _Hm_ ,” she hums. “ _Not bad. So I understand you near perfectly._ ”

“A _nine_ would be nearly perfect,” he corrects. But perhaps his answer was a bit deceptive, considering that he would have only given himself an eight and a half.

“ _It’s not relevant. A long while ago you claimed being empathized with was farthest from your mind, as long as you could live independently._ ” Swain rolls his eyes at those words, but only because he did, in fact, remember saying them. “ _Well… Here you are, having gotten all you asked for. And yet you don’t seem satisfied._ ”

“...You think I’m unsatisfied? By which observations?” he asks flatly, putting down the spatula to stare pointedly at his phone. “My medication is stable, I’m able to live independently, I’m _employed_ , by Wolf’s Name _._ Three years ago, that felt like an audacious pipe dream, not something _reasonable_ — so forgive me if I feel a bit of fervor to make clear that I have not gotten greedy. My opinion hasn’t changed; this is _enough_.”

“ _Greedy—_ ” Camille scoffs, but doesn’t dwell on it. “ _It_ has _changed, and you only deny it because in your mind, to expect that level of understanding from other people is setting yourself up for disappointment._ ” Swain scowls, leaning his hand into the countertop. “ _And greed? Please. The real flaw you should be analyzing is your fear._ ” 

His patience wears terribly thin, at hearing that. “My _fear_ —” 

“Rational _fear, Jericho. If I were in your shoes, I would do the same, but—_ ”

“Of course you would do the same!” He slams his palm to the countertop, and is satisfied with the silence that follows. “You would do the same, so that people don’t look at you with more _pity_ and _loathing_ than they have to. At least I have a proper excuse. Perhaps take your own advice before expecting me to have any shred of confidence in it. I do _apologize_ for finding no value in the romantic council of a chronic widower, least of all when she only seems interested in finding intimacy in a wine bottle.” They both say nothing for a long while, as he breathes slowly through his nose, anger boiling in his blood. Finally, he tames its heat, and tempers it into something civil. “If that’s all, Camille… Then I have better things that I could be doing.”

“ _I struck a nerve, evidently_ .” She does not apologize, nor does she ask one of him, but she does demand the last word. “ _You have someone who’s willing to put in the effort to know you, Jericho. Don’t squander it with your own piddly insecurities._ ”

“ _Goodbye_ , Camille.”

Swain ends the call, and tosses his phone back to the countertop. The eggs are overcooked, he is sure, but what is more worthy of his attention is how the pattern of the wood flooring is shifting. 

The vertigo would be overwhelming if he wasn’t so used to dealing with it, and he manages to sit himself down at his kitchen table with a glass of cold water. It doesn’t stop the sensation of how the room rocks in steady waves, but he presses the palms of his hands to his eyes nonetheless, applying a steady pressure.

Swain knows he has little to be angry at, all things considered. He had been the one to fling insults first, but… Sometimes that woman drove him mad. Camille was troublesome, unapologetic in her advice and opinions— Yet the most infuriating part was that she always delivered him to the conclusions that he already knew but refused to acknowledge.

Of course he wanted to be understood. That much was human nature, and as much as he tried to depart from his physiology in every way, the flaws in himself were undeniable. He could not separate himself from any of them— not his faulty mind, and not his desire for validation nor companionship. But he _could_ stave them off, buffer against them, _restrict_ them. 

To be understood... How could he call it anything but an impossible task, when he did not even understand himself to completion? But if he could never find someone to understand, he did admit that the next best thing would be someone who would try each time, despite each failure. He just hoped Darius was one of the two.

Regardless, he didn’t have the time, nor energy, to dwell on it now. He did not enjoy unexpected changes in his routine, especially when the day had just begun, but sometimes it was necessary. He sighs lowly. There was more than enough on his plate today _without_ the added factor that he would now be late, given that New Valoran’s political season was entering full swing. Lissandra would not be especially happy to hear it, but he was at least confident that Lucian would be willing to direct the interns to do something relatively productive in the meantime. 

A few minutes later, he retrieves his phone from the countertop and drafts a brief email.

_Going to be late by about thirty minutes. I would appreciate it if you keep the interns busy somehow in the meantime._

Lissandra emails back promptly, with her typical inflection that always has him wondering whether she is disgruntled or not. _Noted…_

To be safe, he lays on the pleasantries. _I realize that it’s not the best timing._

_I’ll keep them busy alright. I have a few articles that could use writing._ Swain sighs lightly, the tension in himself finally unwinding. He would have to bring Lucian an expensive bottle of wine one of these days. Shortly, there’s another email populating on his phone. _You don’t mind if I keep them the whole day, do you?_

...Swain supposes that settles it. One of his best ice wines, it is.

* * *

Technically, Darius didn’t have any clients today. Off season was about to begin, which meant in the coming months he would be a lot less busy. All that was left now was the mountain of filing and paperwork he would be sorting through this winter.

That doesn’t stop Sylas from arriving late, but Darius honestly expected as much.

“Darius!” he greets, swinging the door open with abandon, and Darius looks up from where he’s working on his computer. Despite the chill of November, Sylas is wearing as little as possible, a worn out hoodie and athletic shorts that makes him look right at home alongside the exercise equipment. “Ah… looks like nothing’s changed here. It’s good to be back.”

“Saw your last game,” Darius says, and can't help but grin. The Demacia Seekers versus The Noxus Drakehounds. Home team be damned, Darius had been rooting for Sylas. Football had never been at the top of his list when it came to favorite sports to watch, but how Sylas moved on the field had even someone like him sitting on the edge of his seat. The man was adaptable— Depending on what the play demanded, he had the guile of a snake or the brute force of an ox, and to say the least, he hadn’t held back for the last game of the season. It hadn't been looking good, but upsets were his specialty— Darius wouldn’t have expected any less then for Sylas to sneak in the winning point. “I hope you had people tripping over themselves to kiss your ass, after those last few plays.”

Sylas laughs. “And for once, I did.” He tugs off the sweatshirt and slides into the rolling chair beside Darius behind the counter, causing it to slide a bit across the tile floor. “But I don't care so much for that.” He stretched out his arms, leaning back and spreading his arms with a laugh. “It’s fortunate that we could end on a good note, and that I'm finally _free_.”

“Until next season,” Darius reminds jokingly, and Sylas kicks his feet up onto the counter.

“Very true.”

He closes the top of his laptop for now. “So, how much longer you gonna play?”

“I’m not sure. I still have a few years in me, I’d say, but I suppose it depends on the league itself.”

Darius frowns. “...You talking about the thing with the Vastaya?” As more people from all over Runeterra congregated in the international city, there’d been more talk of what constituted ‘fair’ in New Valoran’s sports scene. It’s weird how things changed— during his era, it hadn’t even been anything anyone thought twice about. If you were good enough, you played, regardless of where you came from, who you were, or whatever else.

“Yes, and no.” Sylas shrugs. “I don’t know if you heard, but Alderman’s cashing out and selling his stakes. After that performance I could go to a different team, easily. But if the scene itself is changing, I’m not sure whether I want to sign back on.”

...A strange thing to say. Darius raises his eyebrow suspiciously. “...Who’s taking ownership?”

“A Demacian.” Sylas gives him a pointed look, and Darius realizes that the man doesn’t mean just _any_ Demacian. Rather, the type that tended to be… politically inclined. 

“That would do it.” Darius gives him a careful look. “...You're worried that the new shareholders are gonna let you go for liking men?”

“You tell me. I wouldn’t put it beyond them.” Sylas smiles humorlessly. “You know the environment. would it be so hard of an argument to make? ‘Officials say, players complain of feeling uncomfortable in the locker rooms.’ Bullshit, but something easy to package. Meanwhile, players who get into actual legal trouble are the least of their concern.” He claps Darius on the shoulder amiably, letting out a short laugh. “No offense, my friend.”

“None taken. Draven needs to get his act together.” Darius frowns in thought. “But youre right. There _have_ been a lot of Demacians buying teams up recently.”

That earns him a halfhearted slug to his arm. “You’re not supposed to agree with me, my friend,” Sylas responds dryly.

“Not like whether I agree or not will change anything,” Darius points out simply. “Do many people know about your preferences?”

“Only a few. I certainly didn’t tell management.” Darius huffs out a laugh. Most players didn’t. He certainly wouldn't have, if he’d known back then that he wasn’t exactly as straight as he’d thought. “Just one or two in the league.”

“Then keep it that way,” Darius says. There wasn’t much else that the man could do, apart from using his popularity to speak out— but how that would end, Darius wasn’t sure. “Stay under the radar and you don't have a problem.”

Sylas leans back in his chair, not especially pleased with his answer. “Noxians.”

“What about ‘em?” Darius asks flatly. 

His tone is tight, smiling humorlessly. “That’s a rather self-serving view, don’t you think?”

“The law’s in favor of people pursuing whoever they want, but with Demacians, opinions are still pretty… You know.” If Sylas didn’t want the harsh reality, he shouldn’t have dug deeper. “Unless you wanna sabotage your spot, there’s nothing you can do, Sylas.” A brief silence goes between them, and so he turns back to his computer. “Besides,” he jokes, “if Noxians were running the show, the league would have broads prancing around together during the halftime show. Not my fault that Demacia stunts everything it gets its mitts on.”

Sylas barks out a laugh. “Are you suggesting an orgy on the fifty yard line? Because my friend, mainstream entertainment isn’t ready for an event like that.” 

Darius grins. “Just an idea. Want me to brainstorm some more?”

“Lamb’s bow, _no_ . Let’s just settle on the simple truth that New Valoran works because there is a _balance_ between cultures.”

“Mm. Yeah, fair enough.”

Sylas sighs. “It is infuriating, though. That all the reasons I _left_ Demacia are seemingly following me here.” 

“It’s what Demacians excel at. Having their heads permanently up their asses. Change of location doesn’t exactly solve anything.” Sylas gives him a glare and he tacks on, “no offense.”

Sylas rolls his eyes. “It comes from the top down. The king, the high courts, the _rich_ … They benefit from the turmoil and so they sit with their thumbs up their arses. I suppose that I shouldn't be surprised the ripples are still felt even out here.” His voice falls flat. “Naive of me.”

  
  
Darius touches his shoulder briefly. “For what it's worth, I’m sorry.” Sylas seems to calm, if only slightly, crossing his arms across his chest.

  
  
“I’m on the _Seekers_ by Lamb’s name.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “The Demacia _Seekers_ , Darius.”

Darius rolls his eyes. “I really want to know who greenlit that. Always did think that was pretty morbid.”

“Oh, absolutely. Apparently, they couldn’t come up with anything better.”

Darius shrugs. “Maybe you should, then.”

“Hm.” Sylas pauses. “You know what? Perhaps I should.” He gestures vaguely. “But look at me, complaining about team names. I hear Noxus is pushing for a new war.”

“Yeah...” Darius responds.

“You’re not enlisting, then?” Sylas asks.

Darius gives him a brief look in warning, before going back to the computer. “Hell no. There's a reason I live in no man's land.”

“No thoughts on it, then.”

“...What do you want me to say? High Command sends a letter every time shit comes up. But I did my time, and they don’t get another damn scrap of it.” Sylas still doesn’t look satisfied by that answer, and so Darius grits out a further answer. “I don’t approve of it, but that doesn’t make a difference. The hell would you want me to do? Ask them nicely?”

With that, Sylas lets it go. “...I suppose not.”

“ _Thank you_.” Darius growls. “Idiot.”

Sylas laughs. “Come on, now. I couldn’t have offended you that badly. Or would you like to listen to me trash on Demacia a bit more?”

“Whatever,” he grunts. “At least you complain about both equally. That's not like most Demacians I know.” 

“And most Noxians I know are abrasive nationalists.” Darius gives him a look, and Sylas chuckles. “I’m saying that you lack those traits, if that was not clear.”

“Good.” He turns back to his work. “But I won’t pretend that I didn’t have my phase.”

“I suppose most of us do. Speaking of phases, how is your brother?”

“Mm,” he hums, noncommittal. Honestly, Darius didn’t really want to talk about Draven. He mostly tuned out his jabber nowadays, for the sake of his own sanity— his brother’s priorities were so skewed that paying them too much attention had Darius’ blood pressure climbing. “...He’s been getting on my nerves, nothing new. Avoiding responsibilities, getting drunk at clubs, the works… Had to bail him for property damage a week ago.” 

“Right, I heard about that.” Sylas huffs, amused.

“He’s been a real pain in the ass. But what else is new.” Darius mulls it over, trying to find something less sour to say about him. “He has a new girlfriend. She’s dumb as a box of rocks, but a beauty.”

“A pair of thick skulls, hm?”

“A match made in heaven.” He chuckles. “Well. No. That would require him to stay committed. I feel bad for ‘em at this point. But I’m sure they realize that they're just Draven’s flavor of the week.”

Men, women, and anyone in between gave it their fair shot when money and fame were on the table, but most didn’t last more than a few months, let alone a night. Sylas shrugs, smiling. “Of course they know it. You can tell, because they mooch for all they're worth while they have the chance.”

It was hilariously true, in most cases. He chuckles. “Well, that’s not what mine’s like.” Bafflingly enough, despite Swain being an incredibly shrewd man, it quickly became clear that he was painfully clueless when it came to competitive sports and celebrity talk. He had half the mind to think he was faking it at first, but when Jericho had genuinely struggled to name even two of their home teams, Darius had realized that the man _really_ hadn’t recognized him. 

“Your what?” Sylas prompts, and Darius blinks.

“Boyfriend,” he answers, deadpan, and Sylas opens his mouth, says nothing, and lets it close again. Darius pauses. “What?”

“...You bastard. And you didn't even tell me?” Sylas accuses incredulously, then laughs. “I’m _wounded_. How long?”

“A few months, but it wasn’t official until yesterday anyway. You didn’t miss much.”

“Who is this boyfriend?”

“His name is Jericho.”

This evidently has Sylas’ interest, as he’s lifting an eyebrow. “Oh? That's a rather traditional name, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. He’s Noxian.”

Sylas huffs out a laugh. “Strange how we’re in the most diverse city on Runeterra, and still we tend towards our roots.”

“ _Coincidentally_ Noxian.” Darius corrects. “I spilled my coffee on him.” And Gods, he was pissed about it. Who would have thought their relationship would spiral so wildly out of control. “I don't know about you, but I wouldn’t call that a bias— just dumb luck.”

“Only you,” Sylas says. “Well, I can't say I was expecting a man. The three of us will have to go out drinking, see if he meets my standards for you.”

Rough-and-tumble Sylas, sitting with prim and proper Jericho. They wouldn’t last three minutes before devolving into heated political talk. Darius barks out a laugh at the thought. “He's nobleborn, so probably not.”

Sylas clearly struggled to maintain his polite smile, especially as the comment registered. “Well… I'm sure that as long as he’s not—”

“He’s a know-it-all. Super vain.” Sylas’ expression sours, but this last thing would be the nail in the coffin, Darius knew. “And, he hates beer.”

Sylas’ expression finally breaks into something lamenting and bewildered. “I’m _highly_ disturbed that you'd end up dating someone like that.” Yet after a moment, he leans forwards slightly, fingers laced together. “...And yet, strangely intrigued. Does sometime next week work for you both?”

Darius laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> All comments welcome. :D


End file.
